As I sat in my chair today, a mysterious feather-thieving wind whipped through my office.
I had been distracted before its arrival—by many things for many measures of time—and came to full attention at its most subtle stirrings.
I did not see this wind, nor did I feel its suggestion on the hairs of my arms or head. Notice I don’t say face, and I omit the face for good reason. Only rarely in my life has my beard ever been blown—I tend to keep it short and neat, but I have been known to grow it to its fullest majesty.
I knew of this wind by the result of its sudden action: dust was thrust into my eye.
I did not see this dust, nor did I feel its sharp suggestion on the cornea, or macheteing its coarseness against inside of my eyelid. Notice I’m very specific about those sensations because I have felt them in relation to dust in my eye at previous times.
I knew of this dust by the result of its sudden action: tears sprang suddenly from my eye, or perhaps eyes if I’m being honest.
While certain events may have held my attentions at the moment the wind was suspected, I found that the spring’s source had other beginnings beyond wind, hope, and change.
I wept for none of these reasons. I wept because it had been a long time since I wept.